


Scruff

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Eames shows up in a tank top, torn jeans, and messy hair and Arthur is all, "HNNNGGG" aka 2300-odd words of gratuitous appreciation of Eames via Arthur's gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scruff

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/841981.html).

They have a lot of down time these days. With success comes notoriety, with notoriety comes a higher price, and long gone are the days when each member of the team would take any job offered just to pay the bills.

It's quiet, but they all know Cobb is out chasing a new scent, a new mark for them. As always, once the deal comes through the first person he calls is Arthur.

Or so Arthur thinks. He's already half buried in his wardrobe, pulling out his case as he takes the call, phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

"Pack an overnight bag, Eames'll be by to pick you up soon."

Arthur blinks, his hands stilling on his suits. Did he--? Surely he couldn't have heard that correctly. "I'm sorry – did you say _Eames_?"

"Uh," and Cobb huffs a laugh at Arthur's response, "yeah, I did. He said he'd pick you up on the way. Is this a problem?"

"No," Arthur says a little indignantly, pulling out the charcoal suit over the pinstripe, because now it's clear Cobb _didn't_ call him first and he wouldn't want it to sound like he cared about petty things like that because, after all, he doesn't. He really, really doesn't. "Wait, I thought Eames was in Rio?" It's not that he keeps tabs on their forger. Okay, actually, that's a completely permissible lie; he definitely keeps tabs on Eames. It's his job, after all.

"He was. A week ago." Okay, yeah, Cobb definitely sounds amused now, like he knows his point man's thoughts. Hell, maybe he does. They've worked together long enough now, and it's not like Cobb wouldn't have any inkling about the obvious dissension between Arthur and Eames.

Arthur's mouth thins, but he modulates his irritation (a _week_?) and merely says, "I'll see you soon, Dom." None too soon he hangs up as there's a knock at the door. He grunts in irritation, laying the suit out on the bed and heads to the front door. The worst thing he's ever done, he thinks, is let Eames know where he lived.

"You're la..." The words die on his lips.

Eames lounges against the doorframe, and, well... it's Eames, of course it is, but he looks like nothing Arthur has ever seen of him before. Arthur is used to the extraordinarily British clothing, the inability to match a single item together, the kind of appalling fashion that often comes ridiculously priced as if money could buy class. But this? This is none of those things.

His gaze takes a painfully long time to take in the absolute vista of masculinity – and Arthur is not like that, he is honestly not like that, and even if he was like that it would not be Eames, it would _never_ be Eames, oh God, but this changes everything, _everything_ – and as much as he tries to tear his gaze away, to look Eames in the eye, his rogue brain has other plans. Because Eames isn't wearing any of those awfully tailored trousers or a stupid paisley shirt or a terribly unfashionable tweed jacket. He's wearing jeans ( _ripped_ jeans too, honestly frayed, the worn denim looking butter soft and clinging to the long, solid lines of Eames' legs and Arthur has to honest to God swallow back the sharp flash of unwanted desire), a white tank top, that yes, while it exposes Eames' embarrassing taste in tattoos, it also shows in excruciating detail how breathtakingly broad and muscled the man is. There is so much of him.

Now Arthur would swear black and blue if asked that his tastes don't run to unshaven, well built British men with a penchant for smartass commentary and making his life as difficult as possible, but even he can admit he'd be hard pressed to find _anyone_ who wouldn't appreciate a sight like this showing up on their doorstep.

His eyes finally meet Eames' and even though it's pretty damn obvious Eames is trying to keep a straight face, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes is a dead giveaway, for once he's quiet, not taking the easy bait of how long Arthur's been standing there, clinging to the door and ogling him. Instead he merely offers an excruciatingly polite, "Good morning, Arthur. Cobb sent me to pick you up. May I come in?"

Arthur grunts eloquently and steps aside, so Eames can pass and he saunters into Arthur's apartment – saunters, he actually _saunters_ , God, this is unbearable – like he owns the place. All Arthur's renewed indignation is lost for a moment in appreciating all the great things denim does for Eames' ass. Oh, now that is really not fair.

For a completely instinctive moment his hand goes to his pocket, but no, it's not a dream. Eames is actually here, in his apartment, all dishevelled hair and stubble shading his jaw, in that entirely too tight tank top and those damn jeans and Arthur is actually salivating at the sight of him. Arthur blames it on the fact that he hasn't gotten laid in a while. Give it long enough and even _Eames_ looks good.

"So," he says, looking everywhere but at Eames' ass. Hey, he'd never noticed how intensely interesting that painting was before. "Rio, hmm? Not back to Mombasa?"

"Mm," Eames says noncommittally, "things went a little pear shaped for me there after last time with Cobb. It's not a crowd who like people who know people who like to cause trouble. It's bad for everyone's business."

"Oh. What a shame." Arthur doesn't even bother trying to inject false sympathy into the words. Eames gambles too much anyway. He'd be surprised if their forger had a single dollar left of Saito's money from the inception job.

"No mind, Rio suits me just fine."

Arthur snorts. "With all the beautiful Brazilian women? I'll bet it does."

This time it's Eames' who turns and looks at him, a brow quirked in a curious look a moment before it evolves into the long lingering leer that Arthur had expected. His gaze travels the entire way down Arthur's body and back up again. It's a cheap move, blatantly sexual, and Arthur just raises his chin challengingly. It's Eames who backs down.

"All the beautiful Brazilian women, yes," Eames murmurs as his gaze slides away. "But really, Arthur, it isn't like we have all the time in the world. We must be off sooner rather than later." Eames turns away, heading straight for Arthur's bedroom and for a moment, just a moment (but that's all it takes) the thought of _Eames_ and _bedroom_ collide in Arthur's mind, washing away all other thought, and his step and breath hitches in unison. Once thought it can't be un-thought and as if Eames is some kind of telepathic mind-reading freak, he sprawls out on Arthur's bed, shifting a little so he's crushing the laid out suit with his thigh. The smile he gives Arthur is coy.

"Oh, get off it," Arthur says, his irritation bleeding through into his voice. It makes Eames' smile widen as he scoots back further onto Arthur's bed. Arthur snatches up the charcoal suit and replaces it with the pinstripe.

"My God," Eames says, his tone dipping to one of wonder as he casually reclines back on Arthur's pillows. "This bed is..." He stops and bounces a little on the mattress, the look he flicks Arthur sets a flush uncurling across Arthur's cheeks. It's even more disarming for its honesty, unlike his leer of moments before. "This must be an absolute delight to—"

"What did you say you were fired from your last job for again? A sexual harassment suit?" Arthur interrupts quickly as he slides the clothing into a garment bag. He doesn't want to hear Eames talking about fucking while on his bed; it'll put all kinds of inappropriate thoughts in his head.

God, now he's thought it and gone and put the inappropriate thoughts in his head himself. Well done, you idiot.

Annoyed with himself, Arthur turns away to rummage through the drawers when Eames lets out a low chuckle. "Well, at my last _real_ job I was only sixteen and not to know she was the boss's daughter," he says, humour bubbling through his tone and Arthur, stupidly, glances back at him.

Eames is leaning back again, one arm folded behind his head and Arthur is most definitely not checking out the warm strip of skin revealed at Eames' hip where his top has ridden up, not at all. He is most definitely not wondering if Eames is that lovely tanned brown all over and how hot his skin should taste under Arthur's mouth. He jerks his gaze back up as Eames runs his fingers through his hair then drags his thumb slowly across his bottom lip. "Do you know what your problem is, Arthur?"

"What?" Arthur says, thinking 'Imagination, it's always imagination.'

Eames doesn't disappoint. "Imagination," he says. "Or rather your glaring lack of it."

Oh, if Eames only knew. _If he only knew_. Maybe something of that shows in Arthur's face, because Eames raises his eyebrows and says "Oh!" in a soft, scandalised, tantalised tone. Arthur shoots him a black look and promptly excuses himself from his own bedroom to regain a modicum of dignity. It's not easy, not when he can still picture Eames touching his mouth, then the flick of his tongue over his lips, the way he absently scratched his chest, fingers sliding down and up, catching on ribbed cotton, drawing attention to muscles and skin Arthur has no right or need to even be looking at, much less contemplating in any way shape or form as incredibly attractive. Eames is _not_ attractive. _Eames_ is not attractive. Eames is not _attractive_ , he is infuriating and impossible and irritating and lots of other words starting with 'i'.

It doesn't take long for Arthur to gather the last of the things he'll need – he learned long ago not to forsake packing a razor or a toothbrush; some of the places Cobb has taken him have been less than civilised, and 'I'll buy it when I get there' no longer suffices – but it's long enough to regain his iron control.

But padding back to the to the bedroom he stops in his tracks in the doorway, gaping.

Eames is in the middle of a full body stretch; the arch of his back, the blissful look on his face as he extends his arms and his top rides higher; the blatantly sensual roll of his hips and way the cant of his leg reveals torn denim high on his inseam, a hole just big enough that Arthur could slide two fingers in against Eames' inner thigh if he wanted to.

If he wanted to.

God.

He wants to, all right. He wants to get all up in Eames, touch everything under that denim, rip the hole wider so he can slide his hand in unhindered, kiss that lush mouth hard, pull Eames' top off with his other hand 'til he can hook it around Eames' wrists and snare them tight, pin him down and drive him crazy with his mouth and body and tongue the way Eames is driving him crazy just by being here now in these clothes that Arthur does not in the slightest bit approve of, lolling about on Arthur's bed like it's his own.

And he dares suggest Arthur has no imagination.

The satisfied groan Eames lets out as he releases all the tension in his big frame is near-pornographic and hits Arthur hard below the belt. Eames sags back against the pillows, eyes closed, a hand absently swiping over the bedspread. Eventually his hand stills and there is no movement but for the rise and fall of his chest and for a moment Arthur thinks Eames might even have fallen asleep. That is until he cracks an eye open and peers at Arthur. "Are you quite done ogling me, hmm?" he asks slyly.

"I – I wasn't – I wasn't _ogling_ —" and Arthur stops and grimaces, because he was, and it's plainly obvious to Eames. He doesn't say anything though, just shoots Arthur a delighted grin as he slides off the bed all feline-supple in a way a man his size has no right to be.

As he takes the case from Arthur's hand, their fingers brush and he leans in, saying, "I don't mind, Arthur, honestly, but we really do need to be going. How about a rain check? I'm happy to let you ogle me all you want later." Eames raises his hand and before Arthur can avoid it he touches Arthur's mouth, just the briefest of touches, fingertips skating across skin and it's like electric shock.

Surprised himself, Eames jerks his hand back just as Arthur steps forward, hands closing over Eames' shoulders – where Arthur's fingers grip skin he feels almost like he's burning - as he turns him, shoving him up against the doorframe. He kisses Eames hard, biting and sucking at his lower lip. Eames mumbles something against his mouth, the case dropping to the floor with a clatter as he reaches for Arthur, one hand gripping the lapel of Arthur's leather jacket, the other sliding around the small of Arthur's back and pulling him closer.

Maybe... oh God, maybe there isn't anything at all wrong with being attracted to Eames, Arthur thinks just as he loses control of their kiss. Eames takes it from Arthur as easily as he'd taken the case, Arthur no longer dominant as Eames' tongue slides against his, tender and wet and sensual and he nearly melts against Eames. Which was really not what Arthur was aiming for here, so he drops his hand, palming Eames through his jeans. Eames is a stiff breeze away from being fully erect and that seems to be just the right time to extract himself from Eames' grip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The little complaining whine that claws its way out of Eames' throat just makes Arthur smile more (and even though his own nerve ends are singing he is _not_ going to give in).

He picks up the case. "Come on, Mr. Eames. We have a plane to catch."


End file.
